Coming Home
by EmpatheticVoice
Summary: Sherlock Holmes suffers from a malady of a mysterious chest tightness after returning from a case. Is there a cure for him? On another note, where the devil is Molly Hooper?


**_A/N: This is my first fanfic. Please forgive any spelling or grammatical errors. Looking for beta readers, willing to edit mature work. Thank you._**

 ** _Disclaimer: characters belong to their respective owners._**

 _It was something he didn't realize he was doing for the longest time._

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had just returned from an international case. It was case given to him by his brother, Mycroft, a payment on one of his many owed favors. It had proven to be rather stimulating. A simple missing persons case had evolved into an international smuggling ring which culminated in a chase and confrontation onboard a train. Both men were running high on adrenaline from such a satisfying adventure. Sherlock was literally bouncing with energy.

After being returned to 221B Bakers street, he greeted Mrs. Hudson and dropped off his things. Due to the time difference, Sherlock had most of the working day ahead of him. He decided to check on his bacterial samples at St. Barts. He hoped Molly had been observing them and taking notes during his absence.

Sherlock stepped out the door and took a deep breath, inhaling the London air. Despite not being a fan of sentiment, he always missed London when he went away. London was his home. He knew the streets and alleys better than the back of his hand. He was attuned to the hustle and bustle; it was as though the city had its own heartbeat. Not that he would ever admit it aloud, but a small anxious knot would always form in his chest when he went away and would remain until he returned. He hailed a cab and made his way to St. Barts.

The consulting detective entered the doors of the morgue with his usual flourish. Inside he saw an unusual sight. It was Mike Stamford, not Molly, doing a preliminary exam on a corpse. He looked up.

"Oh, Hello Sherlock."

"Where is Molly?" The detective queried.

"She's not working today."

"I can observe that."

"She had to testify in court." Stamford supplied.

"Ah."

Sherlock nodded once and proceeded up towards the lab. He had hoped his cultures remained uncontaminated.

A few days later, Sherlock arrived back at the morgue for a case. He was again surprised to see someone else working Molly's shift. He inquired Mike, and he explained that she had offered to switch with a fellow colleague who was in a bind. Sherlock's face was impassive, however he noted that he still had his post-trip chest tightness. Despite the usual blustering over Dr. Singh's work, Sherlock was able to solve the case with minimal effort.

The following week, the detective had not seen hide nor hair of Molly Hooper. Again the excuse was that she was attending a pathology conference in Bristol. For some reason, Sherlock's agitation grew, and the knot in his chest remained, if not grown bigger.

Sherlock sat in his chair at 221B, and was attempting to create order in his mind palace. Aside from filing relevant data of his most recent cases, a small part of his brain could not seem to dismiss the notion that Molly Hooper's continued absence was seemingly not a result of foul play rather than an unrelated series of unfortunate circumstances.

"It does not make sense." He muttered to himself.

"What doesn't?"

"Oh, Hello John. Been here long?"

"I've been here for at least a half hour, mate."

Sherlock reacted with his usual aplomb.

"Want to talk about it?"

Sherlock drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. He suddenly leapt up and began pacing.

He began, "For the past two weeks, ever since we returned on that case we took on for Mycroft, I have been experiencing chest tightness."

John immediately went into army doctor mode.

"Have you been experiencing other symptoms?" He tried to take ahold of Sherlock's wrist to check his pulse. "Let me take your blood pressure." He insisted.

Sherlock pulled free from John's grip and rolled his eyes at his friend. "For god's sake John, I am not having cardiac issues."

"Let me be the judge of that. Take off your shirt."

Sherlock could see the only way to move the conversation forward would be to comply with the request of his concerned friend. He sighed loudly, unbuttoning his shirt and sat down in his chair. John retrieved his blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. He took a reading and then was listening to his chest. It was at that moment, of course, that Mrs. Hudson chose to enter the flat.

"Sherlock…Have you taken my—OH!"

"It's not what it looks like!" John said immediately. The speed in which he said that seemed to make him seem all the guiltier.

"It's quite alright dear. Me and the Mr. used to play all sorts of games. Keeps things fresh."

"Mrs Hudson! I am not gay!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock chose at that moment to speak "This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been so insistent on removing my shirt."

"Sherlock!" John turned to him, completely aghast. He really wished his friend would think about what he says before he speaks.

Mrs. Hudson gave the pair a knowing look.

"It's alright dear. You might want to make sure the door is locked next time. Unless you like that sort of thing. Bit of exhibitionism keeps things spicy, certainly was when my husband and I did it."

"Mrs. Hudson!" Both men exclaimed horrified.

She took it as her cue to exit.

"Not Gay!" John called out to her.

She turned in the doorway and gave Sherlock a sympathetic look.

"Give him time dear, Things are not like they used to. He'll come round."

Sherlock responded by raising both his eyebrows.

After being poked and prodded in a totally unnecessary physical exam, in Sherlock's opinion, he managed to get John to go away with the promise of informing him if any other symptoms were to appear.

Unbothered by his open shirt, Sherlock went over to his violin stand and picked up his instrument. With his bow in hand, he let out a long practiced whine. It was a perfectly mournful sound. To an average ear, it would seem like it was full of a lonely longing. Sherlock allowed the music to wash over him. Despite the motto of music's ability to soothe the savage beast, his still could not escape the feeling of being unsettled. He needed time to think.

The days continued to progress and it was only a matter of time that Greg Lestrade called Sherlock in for a case. John and Lestrade were waiting for him in the morgue. As Sherlock entered he noticed a wisp of brown hair trailing behind someone who was just leaving through the other set of double doors.

Impatient to get started on the case, he growled, "Where is Molly?"

"Just missed her, mate." John told him.

Lestrade piped in, "She is teaching today. Breaking in the new interns in post-mortem lab work. Dr. Singh is doing this one."

Sherlock groaned.

"Now, now, He is perfectly capable, we can't expect Molly to do everything." Lestrade chided him.

Sherlock grimaced and internally disagreed.

"Teaching really seems to suit Molly." John added.

"It does." Greg agreed. "She looks good."

Sherlock's ire continued to grow.

"I bet she is looking forward to her vaca—"

"If you two gentleman are finished nattering away like a pair old ladies, I would like to get on with this case. " Sherlock interrupted.

It was providential that Dr. Singh had chosen to appear.

Sherlock's general frustration continued to persist.

A full three weeks had passed and Sherlock continued to remain antsy. He felt as though his body did not accept the fact that he was home in London. While he continued in his life's routine and take cases, he still felt transient, like he was simply passing through.

Sherlock pondered this and asked Billy the skull, "I wonder if gypsies experienced this?"

Billy made no reply.

Sherlock sighed. He had hoped that it would not have to come to this…his last resort.

He barged his way into Mycroft's office and sat in his chair sideways. He wiggled till he was comfortable, with his long legs hanging off the arm. He always did this, mainly to irritate Mycroft, as stout and proper as his brother was.

Mycroft merely raised his eyebrow. "Is there something I can do for you, brother mine?"

Sherlock quietly pouted for a few mins before speaking. He explained his situation in its entirety.

Mycroft maintained his neutral expression.

"Well it seems the answer is clear."

Sherlock turned to him.

"It appears you have allowed sentiment to cloud your thinking. It is best if you separate your thoughts from those distracting feelings to maintain your clarity. "

"How?" Sherlock queried.

Mycroft sniffed.

"I'm sure you can recall similar past events in your mind palace. You simply have to find the threads of commonality. From there you can trace them back to the source and deal with it."

Sherlock tucked his hands under his chin in his mind palace pose. He recalled past instances where he left London and returned from cases. Being a creature of habit, it was easy to run multiple scenarios in his head simultaneously.

He entered Baker's street, informing Mrs. Hudson loudly, that he had returned.

Trudged up the stairs and dumped his luggage in the sitting room.

Let out a large sigh.

Sherlock briefly glossed over the small mundane facts, finding those things relatively irrelevant.

Eventually, he made his way over to St. Barts.

"…St. Bart's…" He murmured.

There he greeted Molly.

Sherlock's eyes widened.

Molly.

He realized every time he went to lab or morgue after returning, he saw Molly. The exception being in this last trip. The knot in his chest loosened slightly, as if agreeing with his conclusion.

Sherlock sprang out of his chair and rushed out the door.

"Your welcome." Mycroft replied dryly to the open air.

Sherlock knew the answer to his problem was to see Molly. He returned to Baker's Street.

Seemed simple enough. He texted her.

 _ **I need a kidney. – SH**_

 _ **So do a lot of people. I am sure you can find yourself onto a donor list. –Molly**_

Sherlock mentally groaned and shook his head, at her typical Hooper humor. The ache in his chest seemed to be easing slightly.

 _ **Don't make jokes Molly. A pair will suffice. I'll take some liver too if you have it. – SH**_

 _ **I'll see what I can do. –Molly**_

Sherlock tossed his phone aside. Now all he had to do was wait.

John arrived later that evening, carrying a foam cooler. He set it down and wiped his brow with his sleeve.

"Here are your parts. Thought I would save Molly the trip, since I was coming over anyway. You really ought to get these yourself, if you want them so badly."

Sherlock scowled. His plan thwarted.

As he laid lazily in bed later that evening, Sherlock resumed his texting.

 _ **Where are you? –SH**_

 _ **At Home. Why? –Molly**_

Sherlock recalled Molly's work schedule. She was off Friday through the weekend. He would go see her and stop this nonsense once and for all. His ego did not want to reveal to Molly his failure in suppressing sentimental emotion.

 _ **No Reason.-SH**_

Sherlock tossed his phone onto his nightstand. For some reason his chest thudded faster.

Having made a sufficient plan in his mind, the next day, Sherlock was in no rush to run over to Molly's . He figured that Molly would spend the day doing mundane boring stuff. It was late afternoon before he decided to go over to his favorite bolthole. Sherlock picked the lock with ease and entered her flat. It was relatively dark aside from the natural light entering from the windows. Molly's cat Toby gave him a vaguely disinterested look before resuming the task of licking his paws.

Surrounded by Molly's things, it seemed that Sherlock's frenetic energy seemed to finally drain away, leaving him tired. He moved into Molly's bedroom and lay on her unmade bed. Molly's scent seemed to linger on the sheets. He buried his face into the pillow and yawned. His body seemed to will itself to fall asleep.

Sherlock awoke utterly relaxed. Sleepily, he sat up, stretched his arms and let out a large yawn. He laid back down and glanced at the alarm clock.

4:15 AM.

Sherlock bolted upward in the bed. It was 4:15 AM and Molly still wasn't home. He leapt up and began to pace. His mind began to filter the scenarios and possibilities of why Molly would not come home. If the reason was due to injury, he would have to wait till later in the morning for confirmation. It was something to be set aside for now.

He focused on the social.

Kidnapping?

Sleepover?

Girl's night?

Date?

Sherlock froze. Could Molly have went on a date and slept with a stranger? All the previous relaxation he had experienced seemed to escape as his chest seemed to spasm and seize once more. The idea of some man being on the receiving end of Molly's warm smiles and bad jokes, seemed not to sit well with him. Sherlock let out a low growl, feeling possessive. He texted Lestrade, asking him to let him know if any reports regarding Molly had came to Scotland Yard. He then glanced and mostly ignored the return texts of Greg asking why.

He texted Molly.

 _ **Where are you? –SH**_

He received no answer.

He decided to stay at Molly's for now so he would know the moment she returned from her sexual escapade. He could keep Toby company, who was currently making figure eights around his ankles. Sherlock bent down and absently petted him. He and his pathologist were going to have a long talk, reminding her of the perils of her pursuing a relationship.

A full day had passed and it was night once more. Sherlock had spent most of the day in his mind palace putting together a speech on what to say to Molly. So far he had listed 56 bullet points of why she should remain celibate and single. He sat on the sofa, and idly stroking Toby after feeding him. He was a mercurial creature, independently indifferent one moment, and incredibly affectionate in another. He was an interesting character study.

As the evening fell, Sherlock finally heard a rattling of a key into the door lock. Molly entered, setting her suitcase by the door. Her eyes widened in surprise as she saw a dark figure rush at her. Her back hit the door, foolishly trapping her.

The figure grabbed her.

"Where the bloody hell have you been!"

Molly's fear seeped away as she recognized the irritable baritone.

"Sherlock!" She squeaked.

Sherlock's arms were locked around her tiny frame. Molly felt as though she had stepped into an alternate universe. She hadn't expected Sherlock would care so much about her visiting her mother.

The speech he had devised in his head was abandoned when he saw Molly. Worry left, and relief flooded through him. He buried his face into the top of her head. Molly lifted her arms up to pull herself away from him but he would not have it.

Was he sniffing her hair? She thought to herself. She curled her arms around his back.

He rumbled, "Do you realize it has been over a month since I have seen you?"

"Has it?"

Molly counted the days in her head. She had been so busy lately she had not noticed. She was extremely surprised Sherlock had been keeping track. He was notoriously bad at keeping aware the passage of time. Her heart lept. She always saw herself as being in the periphery of his life. Sherlock's history of treatment seemed to allude that she was someone who did not count. Molly could not seem to hold in her surprise and confusion.

Sherlock's chest was heaving. The knots and tightness that had made their residences there were finally evicted. He kissed Molly's forehead. This was the feeling, he acknowledged and savored it. It was the sensation that he was finally home.

 _ **A/N: Often we see situations where Molly waits for Sherlock to "get it." For once, I wanted to see the reverse being true. I wanted to create a situation where Sherlock does most of the legwork in pining away, while Molly continues on with her life.**_


End file.
